


Little Red

by dulcetine, stinuhhstuckytrash



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Fairy Tale Retellings, Hand Jobs, M/M, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-26 12:07:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19005481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dulcetine/pseuds/dulcetine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/stinuhhstuckytrash/pseuds/stinuhhstuckytrash
Summary: When Natasha goes silent from a safehouse in the woods, Steve can't stop himself from investigating. What he's searching for is difficult to say. What he finds is difficult to face.--Written for CapRBB 2019 || Words by swordliliesandebony art by Dulcetine--





	Little Red

#   

# Day One

Steve is not in the forest alone. He realizes this almost immediately, maybe a mile down the barely-existent path. Maybe he should have expected it. He’s not in so deep yet that an errant hiker would be entirely unexpected. The place is isolated, sure, and the safehouse would be far more so, but it’s not impossible to reach. The path, after all, half-covered and terribly overgrown as it is, exists. Dirt paths like this only continue to exist by nature of use.

Still, he had expected to be alone, whether it was reasonable or not. Natasha wouldn’t have chosen a location where she would be easily stumbled upon, by either friend or foe. And maybe it was a fool’s errand to try to seek her out this way, but she had been doing Steve every favor in the book as of late, and the sudden break in contact was reason enough to try and track her. That said, of course, there was always the possibility that she wasn’t staying in this location at all. There was always the possibility that even if she had been, she’d already moved on. It didn’t stop Steve from trying.

Sam had tried to encourage him in equal parts, first to abandon the endeavor entirely, then to let him accompany. Steve had won both battles, though he was beginning to question his motives. Needed time to clear his head, he’d said. It was true, too. But his mind wasn’t any clearer amongst the trees and roots. It wandered just the same, and always in the same direction; always landing in that same place, ever since he was pulled from the river.

_Bucky._

He was out there somewhere, and Steve didn’t have a clue as to where. Natasha had been working on that, to whatever extent she could, with whatever other—admittedly more pressing—tasks she got up to. Steve didn’t press, knew better than that. But he knew that his own mind had only one track, and he didn’t waver from those thoughts even now. He would check in on Nat, make sure she was safe, as if she really needed it. But it was all an excuse. He needed information, needed a lead, needed something in the in-between to think about.

It just didn’t happen to work out that way. Because even with the growing signs he wasn’t alone—the sounds of footsteps, rustling, the signs of camps that had been hastily torn down, footprints, _breathing_ —there was that ever-present sense of solitude. That feeling of being alone, as he claimed he wanted to be, with his thoughts. And how could they stray, when Bucky was out there and, whether he knew it or not, needed Steve.

It was just around midday when he came across the obvious abandoned encampment. Signs of stakes pressed and pulled from the ground around flattened brush that signified a tent. Debris from a fire that must have been put out the night before, guessing from the remaining ash in the makeshift pit. He regarded it only for a moment, only with a passing curiosity. It could mean trouble, if someone had gotten a hit on Natasha. He wasn’t—would never be—the only one looking for her, he was sure. But, he reminded himself, this wasn’t a rescue mission. She didn’t need rescuing from the type of person who would leave tracks so obvious. He wasn’t sure she would ever need rescuing from anyone. This...this was all about Steve, all about what he wanted. What he needed.

Bucky crosses his mind again. He has to remind himself, has to try to turn it into sense, that this is not the Bucky he knew. This isn’t skinned knees and blankets on the floor and an old apartment that they could barely scrape pennies together for. This isn’t stolen moments and words unsaid and a feeling so big Steve’s heart could burst from it. This is someone who has been taken from him, who he needs to get back, and who doesn’t even know him any more.

Except, is that really true? Steve trudges along the path with the same confusion in his mind. Why did he pull him from the water? Why did Bucky save him? Why did he have that look in his eyes, that moment of hesitation, when Steve reminded him that he was with him til the end of the line? There were too many questions, too many uncertainties. And there was the biggest question of all, still lingering, still pressing at him.

What would happen when he did find him?

Because it wasn’t a question of ‘if’ to Steve. He wouldn’t stop, couldn’t stop, until he had that chance again. There was still a chance, is still a chance, is still hope right along with all those other feelings that keep mingling in his chest and clouding in his head. He will find Bucky, but how the hell is he supposed to find _his_ Bucky?

The thoughts don’t stop as the brush becomes thicker, as the path trickles down to nothing and he’s forced to rely on a compass and a crude map, one that may not even direct him to the right place. Nat was tricky like that, and he knew it damn well. He would have to be careful, have to be on his guard, more alert and more aware of his surroundings. And it felt so impossible right now, with everything else on his mind.

It doesn’t help when Steve is sure he catches a glimpse of the guy he isn’t _really_ tracking. He’s further up the not-trail, and he seems to have a destination in mind more clearly than Steve ever could. He doesn’t see any signs of the navigation tools Steve himself has been reduced to. This man, whoever he is, knows the forest. Or, at very least, he’s giving the impression of someone who does.

It could be trouble. It almost certainly is. Someone with that much apparent purpose, something visible just from a glance, is up to something. And he’s up to something in the place that Steve is up to something, and there’s all too good a chance they’re up to the same something. He takes stock of what he sees, and he follows at a distance. The man is doing nothing to betray an identity, with a heavy jacket and a ballcap that doesn’t quite conceal a length of hair.

For just a moment, just a split second, Bucky springs to mind again. It makes Steve’s heart clench in his chest, because it’s so impossible. It’s so unlikely that, in a roundabout search for information, for a lead, for anything, he would come straight to him. What would Bucky be doing here anyway, though? What business could he possibly have in a forest big enough to simply slip away into, be lost forever…

Steve has to remind himself that it’s nonsense, and he has to make an effort not to be caught. By the time he sees the guy, gets a good track on him, sunset is approaching fast. It gets darker under the canopy before it would in the clear, and he knows that both of them—if they’re smart—will be setting up camp soon. Still, he needs to stay the path, needs not to stray. It’s impossible. It’s impossible not to follow the man, not to track him rather than tracking the trail on the map.

He waits and he follows, and when he sees the man find a small clearing to gather himself up for the night, Steve finds a place nearby to do the same. He can’t see much, but the fire blazes over there once it’s set and a certain scent of food wafts his direction, making his stomach growl. Maybe he wasn’t quite as prepared as this guy. And maybe it didn’t matter if he was, because the risk of setting up a proper camp, putting on a fire and potentially giving himself away, was simply too much.

So instead, Steve unfurls the sleeping bag rolled at the bottom of his pack and he settles himself in, the red jacket he’d been wearing bunched up into a type of pillow once his body is secure and warmed in the bag. He won’t sleep, he knows better than to think it will take him. He’ll only watch, and he’ll wait for a chance that may not come, to investigate the camp, to glean a little information about the stranger. It was the best he could do. If this was Hydra, he would stop them before they had the chance to strike. If it was a simple passer-by—and he was having so many increasing doubts that it could be the case—he would only be too happy to be too cautious.

And until he could know, he could only wait, and let his thoughts drift back to days where he still knew Bucky, where Bucky still knew him, where they knew one another better than they knew themselves. He could let himself imagine the perfect reunion, with Bucky’s mind cleared of the torment he’d been subjected to, with his memory intact and that perfect smile gracing lips he only wants pressed to his.   

 

* * *

 

 

# Day Two

The opportunity to scope out the stranger’s camp comes unexpectedly. It’s early in the morning, just past sunrise, when he sees the man abandon the encampment. He doesn’t tear things down, but he gathers up a pack and heads some way west, disappearing quickly from sight. Steve doesn’t spring immediately to action, waiting first to see if it will be a quick return. When that doesn’t seem to be the case, though, he’s up and at it.

The camp itself is a bit of a mess, but maybe that’s for the best. It leaves Steve every opportunity to nose around for clues. But he’s not sure that the remnants of dinner from the night before—empty cans beside a charred out fire ring—provide much of that. He kicks through the dirt a little bit, the discouragement settling in quickly. Then, with the sort of reckless abandon that defines Steve Rogers, he heads for the tent.

It’s just a small thing, staked down expertly but with little substance to it. Barely enough to fight the morning chill when he works down the zipper. It blocks some of the wind, but not all, and he thinks that the guy must have been miserable. Must be miserable now, wandering the forest for god knows what reason. Steve is only glad he had the foresight to throw the jacket back on before making the trek over.

The inside of the tent is about what he would have expected. There’s a sleeping bag still sprawled out, and beside it, a small notebook. He takes a glance over his shoulder before he goes for it. It’s all necessary, he tells himself, he needs to know what the hell this guy is up to, what he’s about. And when he flips through the pages, any guilt about invading privacy fades to nothing.

Because the pages are _him_.

It could be a damn research project on Steve Rogers for all the information scrawled down. And it’s not just the basic stuff, he realizes after a few pages. Sure, it starts that way. Vague scribblings that could have been copied from that stupid Smithsonian exhibit. Well-enough known notes about his birthplace, his service record, his disappearance into the ice. His return. But that’s only a few pages out of a filled many, and his heart begins to pound as he flips on.

There are things in there that only he could know. Things about his childhood, about his old neighborhood, about his apartment and his mother and, god damn it, about his best friend. He feels hot and cold at once and he realizes it after staring for some time. This isn’t Hydra—not any more, at least. This isn’t someone hunting him down. This is someone...what? _Remembering_ , Steve wants to tell himself. Wants to believe.

He doesn’t know how long he flips through those pages, but it’s too long. He realizes that part a little too late, too. He realizes it because there are footsteps, branches snapping and leaves crunching, and nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. He doesn’t drop the notebook when he should, he clutches it instead, like a holy thing. And it feels like that, god does it ever feel like that. Because it’s his confirmation that, when the tent opens, he won’t be shot dead on sight.

“What the hell are you doing?” Steve wants to say the voice is terribly familiar, but after all this time and space between them, it’s not. It’s gravelly and worn, maybe with disuse. It’s a facsimile of what he knew a lifetime ago. But he knows it’s still him, he knows without turning around, without coming face-to-face. He lays the notebook down and he raises his hands, as if he really expects Bucky to attack.

And maybe he will. Maybe the memories scrawled on dirty pages aren’t enough. Maybe they aren’t memories at all. Maybe there was something else, some other way he could have come across that information. But Steve doesn’t think so. There’s nobody left alive after all, not other than the two of them, who were there for it.

Steve is slow when he pivots on one knee, his movements deliberate. Nothing sudden, nothing to startle him. And he comes face-to-face with the man who, for the first time since Steve encountered him again, holds something close to recognition in his eyes. At the very least, he knows who Steve is, even if he doesn’t know who Steve is— _was_ , he reminds himself—to him. There’s a long silence that stretches between them. Bucky appears to be unarmed, or at the very least, he isn’t holding a weapon to Steve the way he had half-expected.

More than that, he’s soaking wet around his hair and his clothes are clinging to damp skin and it makes Steve stare and shudder, makes something come to life in the back of his mind that is certainly not appropriate for the situation. Memories, more of them, flooding his mind and his senses until there’s nothing left but Bucky, with his hair trimmed short, stepping out of a shower. Bucky, drenched in sweat and giving him a playful shove. Bucky from another era, from another life.

“I’m not gonna hurt you, Buck. I needed to know who you were. These woods…”

“Aren’t safe. Why are you here?”

Steve finds himself at a loss for the response. Steve could ask the same thing himself, of course. What the hell is Bucky doing wandering around woods that have nothing to offer beyond a safehouse he shouldn’t know of? What is he doing with that notebook, with those words scratched in? And what does he know about this forest that makes him think it unsafe, in any way that would be worth mentioning?

“Looking for a friend.” Steve manages to supply. And he can’t get specific there, because he doesn’t know how. He doesn’t know how to explain he was looking for one to find the other, that he stumbled on the person who served as his actual end point. He could leave now, leave with Bucky, and he could be sure Nat would be okay, right? But the woods are dangerous, Bucky said it himself, and Steve can feel something shifting.

“Dumb place to look,” Bucky says, but there’s something there, something curling at his lips that looks suspiciously like a smile, that makes Steve feel a twist in his stomach, like there’s something returned to Bucky that he hadn’t ever expected to see again. “Did the notes say you’re incurably stupid? I’ll have to add that.”  

Steve laughs. It comes on unexpectedly and with such a warmth that he doesn’t remember the last time he felt. Now that, that is Bucky. That’s the Bucky he knew so long ago, and it’s the one that he’s praying so desperately is primed to return. He’s not there yet, because Steve can see the torment still plaguing him. He can see it in his eyes and his sunken posture. He can see it in the way he doesn’t even shiver, soaking wet in the morning cold. What the hell did they _do_ to him?

“Careful there, you’re really starting to sound like the Bucky I know.” That was the wrong thing to say and Steve realizes it almost as soon as the words slip from his lips. Bucky turns his head away, shakes it minutely. He can see the hurt spring to his eyes more clearly than before, his mouth drawn into a tight line and his arms moving to cross against his chest.

“That’s not who I am any more. Hydra made sure of that.” The bitterness almost makes Steve flinch. He wonders about it again, about everything that Bucky must have gone through. How much was he aware of? How much did he remember? Steve dare not ask. There’s something building between them here, fragile and uncertain, but it’s something. It’s that same something that pulled him out of the water, he’s sure. It’s something that reaches through time, but time is tricky and there’s been a hell of a lot of it.

“That’s bullshit, Buck. You pulled me out of that water. You’re here now, without a gun drawn on me. You’re not just what they made you.” Steve can say that with confidence, maybe with more than he actually feels. But he can see his Bucky in this one, knows deep down that they’re one in the same, even if they’re separated by whatever all happened to him. He could only look at the files so long, could only take so much in, before it was too much for his heart to be burdened with. Steve was always weak for Bucky. And maybe that’s the crux of it. Bucky could have finished his _mission_ if every part had really wanted to.

“Stubborn, too. Think maybe I remember that.” Bucky’s voice sounds lighter again, it sounds like _him_ when he’s teasing Steve, when he’s acting like the man Steve knows. And he’s doing it with such regularity that Steve can’t help but think that he’s close, so close, to coming home to him. He doesn’t know where those words come from, but they’re the right ones, aren’t they? Bucky, always coming home to him back then. And now, he could do it, he could just step through the door and everything could be like it was.

“Seems like you’re starting to remember a lot,” Steve gestures to the notebook on the ground, and maybe his face is too full of hope, because Bucky’s drops again. They both go quiet for what feels like a long time, before Bucky brushes past Steve to pick the notebook up and shove it in a jacket pocket. He stands, as much as he can in the little tent, and faces Steve again. More silence. Steve wants to break it, he wants to come up with the right words to say, something to make Bucky remember again. Something to make Bucky know just how much he means to Steve, how much _this_ means.

“Your friend. They’re in the safehouse?” The words catch Steve by surprise, but he nods, and maybe he doesn’t mean to. Maybe it’s not right for him to be confirming this information, when there’s no proof that this isn’t just a ploy, that Bucky hasn’t been reprogrammed in some new way and isn’t just playing him to get to what he wants. But Steve won’t let himself believe that, not with the notebook, not with the look on Bucky’s face. Not with the fact that he doesn’t feel that thrum of hostility bubbling between them any more.

“She is. How do you know about that?” But maybe Steve doesn’t need to ask the question. Not if he’s still got the idea of Bucky charging at him, shooting at him, trying to kill him in his mind. It’s branded there, and he knows damn well how Bucky knows about the safehouse. It’s the same reason that these woods are dangerous, and maybe the same reason Bucky is here in the first place.

“Stupid question. This place is crawling with Hydra. You must have thought of that, if you were snooping in my shit. Not a good place to be hidin’, little red.” Steve glances at his jacket for a moment and he has the good grace to blush at Bucky’s nickname. Still, he shoves his hands in the jacket pockets and he allows a sigh. He hadn’t _known_ it to be the truth, but he had suspected. Bucky was right on that part. He was sure he’d been tracking one of them. He still has to contend with the fact that he might be.

“Exactly. So no use tellin’ me to go back.” Steve is resolute in that fact, now. He needs to make it to the safehouse and he needs to know exactly what happened that cut their contact so abruptly. Nat will be fine—she always is—but that’s not to say she couldn’t use an assist now and again, even if she would never admit as much. Steve would stand straight and tall and firm in those words, if it wouldn’t mean putting his head through the top of the tent.

“I already worked out you’re too stubborn for that,” Bucky says and he rolls his eyes in a way that makes Steve smile again. It’s too easy with him, too easy with them. That feeling of such a natural connection is already returning solid and strong and Steve can’t ignore it. He would love to, really, but there’s no denying it. This isn’t Hydra, this isn’t a machine or a weapon, this is his Bucky, buried beneath a few layers of nightmarish shit. “You’re goin’ the wrong way, though. Gonna need a guide.”

Steve’s breath catches and he only stares at Bucky for a long moment. Is he really suggesting what Steve thinks? Is he really making the offer to accompany him through this mission, to fight at his side again? How long has it been since the two of them have operated as a team? Too long. Too long to count and almost too long to remember, if it weren’t for the fact that every damn moment with Bucky seems to be seared into Steve’s memory. If it weren’t for the fact that Bucky meant, means, always will mean the world to him.

“Are you offering, Buck? After everything you’ve been through, I couldn’t ask you to follow me right back to them.” But Steve wasn’t asking, Bucky was making the statement, was making the offer. He only smirks at Steve’s words as he begins gathering up his belongings from the tent, rolling and tying the sleeping bag, hoisting a bag that clanked with metal over his shoulder from the far corner of the little haven. There’s more that Steve isn’t saying, that Steve fears more than anything else. What if they manage to take him again? What if, yet again, Steve can’t save Bucky? Can he live with himself if he watches his best friend, his—Steve doesn’t even let himself _think_ the word—slip away once more?

“They ain’t my friends, Steve. I’ve got some reasons for bein’ here too, other than just hiding from your stubborn ass.” There’s something sparking inside Steve, hearing his name on Bucky’s lips, and it’s all danger. It’s all too much, when they’ve barely established the fact that they aren’t about to fight to near-death again.

“Am I? Your friend, I mean.” Steve isn’t sure he wants the answer to that one, and Bucky seems like he has to think about it for longer than Steve would like. It’s not that easy, he reminds himself. It’s been a lifetime for both of them, and a far harder lifetime for Bucky than for Steve. But he’s missed him, god he’s missed him every damn moment since he slipped so literally from between his fingers. His heart feels ready to burst waiting for the answer, and maybe that hope is back in his eyes, because Bucky doesn’t seem to be able to look in them, instead leading the way out of the tent so they can work on breaking down camp.

“Guess we’ll find out.” It’s more than Steve probably could have hoped for, but the words still break his heart into a million tiny pieces. The Bucky he knew could have answered that question without a moment’s hesitation, probably calling him an idiot or a punk for good measure. Steve doesn’t say anything, instead helping Bucky pack up the tent and kick over the leavings of the fire, this time a little bit more careful about covering tracks. He goes to retrieve what little he left at his own site and the two meet again somewhere in the middle.

They don’t speak while they prepare to set off, but maybe they don’t need to. Steve is still left with all the questions clouding his mind. He has a million that he wants to set off at Bucky, all rapid-fire and intense. He wants to know what happened to Bucky after they parted ways, how long he’s been in these woods. He wants to know what he remembers from their life, and what he remembers from that endless span between then and now. But he doesn’t ask any of those questions, because this all feels so precarious and precious, something that Steve can’t risk breaking before there’s been time for it to take root.      

“You weren’t far off before you started trailing me,” Bucky says eventually, when they’re already walking down what cannot even generously be described as a path any more. It’s for the best, Steve thinks, if this safehouse is really meant to be safe. He opens his mouth to ask Bucky how he knew he was being followed, but he doesn’t need to, “yeah, you were pretty obvious. You’re lucky I wasn’t out to kill you this time.”

“Really lucky,” Steve agrees, though he’s frowning over the fact that he was so easily spotted. Then again, Bucky has been trained up as a master assassin. Tracking him wouldn’t be nearly as easy as just following at a distance, snooping around when he was off cleaning up. Steve simply hadn’t known who it was he was trailing, and that’s where his mistake lie. Of course, that didn’t mean it had been smart to be so clumsy, and he would have to learn from it, have to be more careful in the future. “So what is it, exactly, that _you’re_ doing here?” He has to ask, because he’s burning with curiosity, and it’s a question safe enough not to break Bucky’s face into that heart-wrenching misery again.

“Lookin’ for the opposite of friends. And some answers.” Vague enough, Steve thinks, and not really an answer at all. He could have guessed that Hydra had drawn Bucky here, but for what actual purpose? Is he on a mission now to take _them_ out instead? It would make sense, some vengeance-fueled attack on the ones who hurt him so much and for so long. But it’s a quick turn-around, and Steve still doesn’t know, not really, if he can trust Bucky.

That’s a strange feeling, even now. Even when they were fighting, when Bucky was unquestionably not Bucky at all, Steve was so inclined to trust him, so inclined to give himself over to the other man. He would have died before he would have actually killed him, there isn’t a doubt in his mind. And he wouldn’t have regretted it, if that’s a thing you get a chance to do after your best friend kills you.

“Whatever you’re doing, Buck, you don’t have to do it alone. You know that, right?” And it’s just like Steve, just like him to the core to offer himself up again so quickly. He thinks he hears Bucky huff something close to a little laugh, and he wonders if it only sparks memories. How willing had Steve always been to follow Bucky’s every move? He remembers wavering for a day or two about moving in with him before finally settling at his place. He remembers trying a thousand times over to join up when Bucky was drafted, and how much of that was only to stay close?

“‘Fraid I do on this one. I’ll get you to your friend, but after that…” his voice trails and for a moment he sounds truly remorseful. Steve wants to scream that he doesn’t have to feel that way, that he doesn’t have to isolate himself. It only gets worse when Bucky continues, “...lot of blood on these hands. More than you know. Can’t go gettin’ Captain America all dirty.”

“Wouldn’t mind if you did.” Steve only realizes how the words sound after he says them. His face flushes and he hears Bucky laugh, and that only makes him blush that much more, makes his heart run that little measure of staccato thumping between his ribs. It’s Bucky, it’s him, joking like they shouldn’t be in this situation, in _any_ situation. Standing at the edge of something that could mean so much, that does mean so much to Steve even if it’s something that doesn’t—will never—really exist. Does Bucky remember that too? It definitely wasn’t in his notes.

“Don’t be a punk. I ain’t stayin’ gone forever. But there’s somethin’ I gotta do here that I don’t need you worryin’ your pretty little head about. Sound fair?” Steve doesn’t think any of this is fair. Not the fact that Bucky is cutting him out of something apparently important. Not the fact that Bucky was lost to him for so long, might be lost to him again depending on how this all pans out. Not the fact that, if Steve leaves him like that, he’ll never even know if Bucky really means to find him again, or if he’ll have survived his ordeal. It all makes his blood run cold and it makes him clench his jaw when he responds.

“Don’t really think any of this is fair, Buck. It’s been a real long time without my best pal, I’m not ready to lose him again.” There’s vulnerability in the words, an admission that he hadn’t quite made before. Bucky stops for a step, just for a second, before he regains his footing and stops staring over at Steve. He hardens his face up with all those tight lines that make steve’s heart ache again and he shakes his head.

“I’m not that guy any more. I’m starting to remember who he was, but that’s not me. Not after everything they did to me. Not after everything _I_ did.” And he sounds so anguished with those words that Steve wants to step up and put his arms around him and swear that all is forgiven, that he didn’t know what he was doing, that he couldn’t stop it. He doesn’t know if it’s true, but he thinks it must be, because Bucky is dealing with something now that’s beyond Steve’s grasp, some sort of guilt that sets down to his bones and turns him into someone Steve really doesn’t know.

“But you know me, Buck. You _do_ remember. Maybe back then is only a part of you now, but it’s been almost a hundred years. I’ve changed, too…”

“Really? ‘Cause you still seem a lot like the same stubborn punk I knew back then.” Steve smiles at the jab because, really, it’s pretty much true. Steve is still stubborn, he still can’t walk away from a fight. The only difference now is that he can hold his own, he can even win. And he’s been doing enough of that lately that he thinks, just maybe, he can win this one too. He _needs_ to win this one, too.

“And you know that. So I’m not sitting here and accepting that you’re not still the guy trying to keep me safe when I’m looking for trouble.” Steve thinks his reasoning is pretty damn iron-clad there and Bucky graces him with a smile for the effort. Those damn smiles, Steve is sure, will be the death of him. Because they look just the same as they always have, they look just the same as the days before the fall, however rare they still were then, under the heat of war.

“We should keep moving. Now isn’t the time.” Is all that Bucky says though, and he picks up the pace as if to cut Steve off entirely from that line of thinking. Maybe it’s a self-defense mechanism. Bucky is still struggling with a lot and Steve isn’t about to deny that, isn’t about to minimize it. But he wants Bucky to know what he sees, what he feels, what he knows is still there. It’s a delicate line, and maybe Steve has already crossed it too many times.

Whatever the case may be, they walk in silence for a long time. It feels like hours, like a century between them again, but it isn’t entirely uncomfortable. Bucky’s very presence is a bolstering force, and Steve can’t be too upset for lack of conversation when he has his friend back. Some part of him, some small part maybe, but it’s Bucky. And he’s going to make Bucky understand that, one way or another.

Steve’s thoughts take to wandering again, to pasts both distant and not. He rethinks all the times Bucky could have really hurt him, could have _killed_ him and didn’t. He rethinks all the nights they spent together in that little apartment, with Steve’s eyes wandering just as badly as his mind was now. He thinks of that tight ball of emotion wound around all his insides the very first time Bucky left him, when he was gone to war and Steve, going through everything that he was, could only think of him.

He remembers that moment of relief under fire when he found Bucky strapped to that damn table, and he remembers so vividly the fact that he wanted to kiss him. God, he wanted to put his arms around him, to never let go, to die in that place in his arms just for a chance. It was so impossible back then, so far beyond taboo. He swore he felt it, felt Bucky’s eyes on him too, but it was too much to hope for, too much of his own heart betraying him. The same way it is now, when they share a glance and Steve is still staring, still searching for that _more_ that feels like it’s always defined him.

The conversation that passes as they walk now is inconsequential, quiet, and rare. They walk for miles, Steve knows that much, at a pace that a normal person wouldn’t be able to maintain for so long. The woods grow thicker and if there was ever a trail, they’ve long since lost it now. But Bucky seems to know exactly where he’s going and Steve doesn’t question it. He doesn’t even consider the fact that he could very well be walking directly into a trap. An expertly set one, too, directed by the one person who he would never doubt, even now.

The only time they stop, before dusk begins settling in, is for a quick snack of chewy, questionably tasting meal bars that Bucky has stowed away in his pack. Steve complains a little bit and Bucky references wartime rations and they both share a laugh, something that sparks a little more hope within Steve. He’s remembering more by the minute, Steve is sure of it. He’s becoming himself again, little by little and almost all at once. He knows better now than to say it.

By the time they’re ready to make camp, the bitter cold has begun to set in again. It’s not winter, but it sure as hell feels like it, the way the temperature drops at night and through the morning. Steve has recollections of a drafty old apartment in Brooklyn, and maybe Bucky does too, because he’s the one to suggest they just share his little tent—that much warmer, of course. Steve pretends he doesn’t remember the press of a body against his, huddled together for warmth, sharing a blanket, sharing breaths.

He pretends he doesn’t long for that still, when they settle in and their sleeping bags are inches apart, and he watches until Bucky’s breathing goes steady and even with sleep. He pretends he doesn’t want to curl close, to throw an arm over the other man’s chest, and simply feel him. He’s gotten good at pretending, over so many years, over a whole lifetime and then some. He even pretends, when he wakes, that he isn’t disappointed by the fact that Bucky is already up, already tearing down camp around them, and preparing to set off again, that much closer to an apparently inevitable departure.

 

 

* * *

 

 

# Day Three

When Steve wakes properly and gets his own gear packed up, he leaves the tent to find Bucky scribbling furiously into the notebook. He looked absolutely fevered, frenzied, like a man on a mission. And maybe he is on one, one that Steve hopes culminates in reclaiming himself. He can only hope at that, though, can only pray that Bucky wants the same.

He tears down the tent on his own, letting Bucky stay at his writing. Bucky chimes in that he can help, but he’s easily enough persuaded to keep on with what he’s doing, that Steve can manage. That’s something new to them, Steve actually being _able_ to manage when he says he can. It was always bullshit when they were younger, when they were barely more than kids. Steve couldn’t handle a whole lot of anything back then, and Bucky… well, Bucky knew the lines. He knew when he could point that out, and when there would be one hell of a row if he dared imply it.

Maybe he still knows that now, because he keeps writing and Steve keeps pulling down the tent and working it up into a tight roll to fit in its place in Bucky’s supplies. He understands now why the thing is so small, so lightweight. Even against the cold—and Steve is shivering beneath his jacket in it—having something compact enough to roll into a bag is a blessing beyond measure. Lugging around much more is an absolute pain in the ass, as Steve has come to learn from his own overzealous supplies. Bucky could live out of his sizeable backpack, where Steve has his tent and sleeping bag attached dangling below, swinging at the backs of his knees and adding weight that even he can find himself a little irritated by in comparison.

“Come up with anything good?” Steve can’t help himself, can’t stop from asking when Bucky finally closes and pockets the little book. He expects a frown or a chastisement for asking, but instead Bucky smiles and he shrugs and he feels like Bucky again. It’s too easy to forget everything else when he gives him looks like that, when he gives him innocent gestures and sparkling eyes.

“Just a few pages on how stupid some guy I knew was. Nothing too important.” His smile spreads to a grin and Steve swears his heart stops dead in his chest. That’s more than he’s gotten so far and it’s more than he could hope for. He wants to keep that expression plastered on Bucky’s face forever, but it’s so fleeting, and moments later it could have never been there at all.

They speak more amiably this time as they walk. Bucky even graces him with a few ‘remember when’s and ‘you know that time you’s. Every time, it makes Steve break out into a big, stupid grin. It makes his heart soar and his whole body feel light. There are a few things even he has forgotten, until Bucky brings them back to light, and that’s the most exciting feeling of all. The thought that Bucky treasured those moments so much as Steve did, it gives him so much of that fluttering hope that he doesn’t know what to do with it.

It’s around midday when everything changes.

Bucky stops mid-conversation, stops dead in his tracks and throws an arm across Steve’s chest to stop him too. Steve opens his mouth to ask what the hell is going on, but Bucky puts one finger over his own, begging silence. That’s when Steve hears it, and he doesn’t know how he didn’t notice it before. Some distance, maybe a few yards away, there’s rustling through the trees. There’s snapping beneath feet. There’s someone else there.

He half expects Bucky to take them off at a run, to get them barreling back into action, but instead he crouches and he tugs Steve to do the same and they watch. They can make out, after some time, the forms of two men in the woods ahead of them. Their trail is a ways off from Steve and Bucky’s, but it’s leading in the same direction generally. Steve’s heart goes to his throat and he feels suddenly ill.

He had been so caught up in Bucky, that he had practically forgotten about the reality of his mission here. He had been after Nat, after the safehouse, ensuring her safety. And, yeah, that selfish part of himself had been after more information regarding Bucky, but that was all secondary. He was here to help a friend, whether she wanted or needed it or not. And he suddenly had hairs raising at the back of his neck, telling him that she damn well may.

They let some distance pass between themselves and the strangers, remaining crouched down and silent but for their breathing. Bucky draws the notebook from his pocket again and this time he flips toward the back. There’s something scribbled there that Steve can’t quite make out, but it makes Bucky curse under his breath and shove the book back into his pocket with a sort of ferocity Steve hadn’t seen since their woodland reunion.

“We’re getting close,” Bucky’s voice doesn’t rise above a whisper, even as the shapes of the two men have disappeared into the distance, “I’ll get you as near as I can, but I have to go. Tonight.” He leaves no room for argument there, his voice firm and his face set. Steve wants to fight it still though, and he frowns at Bucky.

“You don’t have to go. We can stick together. It isn’t safe and—”

“—Steve, I really need you to trust me here. It’ll be a lot less safe if I stay.” Steve doesn’t understand what the hell that’s supposed to mean and he’s ready to argue it, but Bucky is slowly making his way to his feet again, “No arguments,” his voice rises just a little bit, still a low growl, “We get you to that safehouse and you stay there until I come back. Got it?”

“Bucky. I’m not that skinny kid any more. I can take care of myself—” But even as Steve says it, he knows he’s not prepared to do so. He’s unarmed, he’s _unshielded_ , he’s not prepared for a fight. He came into this knowing that one might be waiting for him, and yet he’s relying on brute strength alone to get through it. And maybe that isn’t smart. Maybe he knows that Bucky is more prepared than him, only imagining what’s in that side bag that clangs metallic whenever he steps.

“—Thing is, you don’t have to.” Bucky’s eyes turn meaningfully to him and Steve’s breath catches again and they don’t say anything else, but they keep moving. They have to keep moving, Steve realizes, because Bucky sees them on some sort of time limit. He doesn’t know what that limit is, doesn’t understand it in the least, but he follows without hesitation. And he knows that he’s not going to convince Bucky of anything other than what the guy’s already got in his head.

Maybe it’s warming, maybe it’s a nice thought, the idea that Bucky still wants to protect him after all this time. But Steve doesn’t need that protection any more. He would have sworn back then that he didn’t need it either, though they both know that was a lie. He trudges on almost dutifully, his eyes set somewhere in the horizon. If the safehouse is truly close, there’s no sign of it so far. And there remains no sign of it as they continue on long through the day.

Steve is on higher guard now, and he’s even the one to stop them a couple times, when they err too close to whoever else it is in the woods with them. They’ve tracked two pairs at this point, travelling on opposite sides of them. If they’ve been spotted themselves, there’s on indication of it, but they can’t be too careful. They quicken their pace and they quiet themselves further, if it’s at all possible. Bucky seems to be considering dropping the bag altogether, but he also seems to be thinking better of it.

Steve can only tell that time has passed by the way the weather changes around them. No sun hits directly, but there’s still a warmth that stretches through the midday. There are still certain insects that swarm them in places, buzzing through the filtered light, clouding the air. There is still a certain sensation of that light somewhere high above, beyond the canopy that clouds the forest. Then, almost too suddenly, it begins to grow cool. They’ve been walking for hours now, Steve realizes, but it’s passed like no time at all.

They’ve been moving double-time and they haven’t been speaking and the only thought in Steve’s mind is that this should have felt like an eternity. But spending all that time on high alert has apparently made it slip through all sand and hourglass like. A sudden ache hits his belly, and it doesn’t come from the fact that they haven’t stopped for a meal today. It’s all about the fact that Bucky will be parting from him much sooner rather than later.

In fact, Steve can practically sense it when Bucky stops them so abruptly. It’s nearing sunset, Steve’s sure of it, and the chill is becoming palpable again. He zips up the red jacket and he shoves his hands in his pockets for a moment as Bucky turns to him. He nods in the direction they’re headed and, suddenly, Steve sees it. The A-frame roof of the little cabin that can only be the safehouse.

His heart thumps wildly and he’s almost ready to make off for it in a sprint. But Bucky is standing still and Steve knows what comes next. He knows with that aching in his stomach and that sinking in his chest and his eyes narrow as he readies himself to challenge Bucky’s words again. They could _both_ hole up in the safehouse, wait out whatever storm was apparently coming. They could find shelter there, and maybe they could have a real conversation. Maybe they could have the conversation Steve has been waiting a good seventy years for.

“You’re on your own from here. I’ll come for you in the morning. Don’t leave before then, no matter what you hear.” Bucky is so grave in his words, so staunch, that Steve can’t do anything other than nod. They’re situated on a hill now, and the safehouse is just barely visible. It’ll still take some time to get there, and Steve will be lucky if he makes it while there’s still sunlight to guide him. But Bucky seems to sense that too, “Go. As fast as you can manage. You trust me, right?”

“With my life.” Steve doesn’t hesitate on that end, and maybe it’s as stupid as Bucky will probably tell him it is. He’s trusting someone who he knew a long time ago, who he barely knows now. Someone who barely knows _himself_. And he’s trusting him so fully, so entirely, so intrinsically that it’s almost begging disaster. But Bucky seems pleased with the response, or at least pleased enough to believe Steve will follow his command.

“Good. Now go. I’ll see you soon.” And he pats Steve on the shoulder, his hand holding and gripping for just a moment. There’s something that passes between them there, a certain look that makes Steve forget how to breathe, not for the first time. He wants to kiss him, god he wants to kiss him. He wants to say a proper goodbye, even if it’s just for a night, just for a few hours really, but he knows better. Instead, he lets Bucky head off in his own direction before he begins booking it for the safehouse.

He slows part way there, though. He slows and he wonders where Bucky has gone to, his mind too clouded with questions to keep his feet moving at that same pace through treacherous terrain. Why did Bucky need to leave before they reached the house? Why was he so eager to get away from Steve, only to come back? What the hell was waiting for him there? Maybe this is the grand trap. Steve knows it’s still a possibility, and maybe that’s what slows him too.

Or maybe it’s the fact that it’s becoming dark. Just not as dark as he had expected. No, he figures it out as he begins to make the final approach on the house. It’s a full moon, shining somewhere beyond the trees. It separates him from full blackness, from the need to fish a flashlight out of his pack until the ground begins to resemble a path again. And that, perhaps coincidentally, is when he hears it.   

_Growling._

His footsteps grow quick again, his heartbeat quicker. Whatever the hell is making that noise, he doesn’t want to know. There’s the sound of something rushing through the trees. But it isn’t one something, from one centralized point. He reaches the clearing just in front of the house and he understands at that moment that he’s properly surrounded. The growl sounds again, and it transforms into something of a howl, and then they’re on him.

You don’t really grasp the sheer size of a wolf, Steve thinks, until one is barreling toward you, teeth bared and eyes bright with ill intent. You don’t grasp how deadly one of the beasts can be until it’s tearing into your forearm and you’re throwing it off with all your strength, sending it crashing into a nearby tree with a sickening crack. You don’t understand the danger of a pack until it’s surrounding you, until there are four of them—one a little dazed, but crawling back to its feet—one on any side, preventing you from making a move.  

He doesn’t dare look at his arm, but he can feel the blood dripping and he can hear the sniffing, as if that’s a call to dinner. Maybe it is. They’re approaching him again, this time slowly. It feels a little bit like the world closing in on Steve, like he’s about to die very slowly and painfully, thanks to his own ill preparation. When the next one—black as night and almost invisible in it—lunges, he swings his pack with a quickness, knocking it off course just enough that he can sidestep.

He’s in trouble. He’s entirely outnumbered, and Bucky… did Bucky know this would befall him? Was that why he encouraged Steve to get so quickly to the safehouse? Or did he somehow unleash this on him, a final attempt to complete a mission. No, it couldn’t be that. It simply wasn’t possible. Not after some of the things Bucky had said. Not after that notebook.

But it didn’t matter now, because he was being attacked from all sides, all angles. He was throwing one off as quickly as the next could sink its teeth in, and he was going down fast. Splashes of red met with shreds of it from the jacket. Was it really possible that Captain America would go out this way, taken down by a small pack of wolves of all things? But these were impossibly aggressive and impossibly strong and Steve had the strange feeling in his gut that there was more to it than that.

Not that the feeling did him any good, because as soon as he had flung one from his back, he felt the tear of claws at his chest, the impossible and unexpected heft of the thing knocking him flat to his back. There’s a moment, just a moment, where he locks eyes with the thing, where it feels like they both know what happens next. Razor teeth will sink into his throat and he won’t even be able to scream, won’t be able to do anything about it at all. His forearms brace against the thing, try to press it off, try to find purchase to grab and push.

And then it’s gone. A flash of white, another wolf, attacking from the side. This one isn’t part of the pack, and in fact, Steve finds that one of the other members near him is incapacitated and bloody—not with just Steve’s blood, either. He watches the fight ensue between the white wolf and the enormous black one for just a moment before he’s scrambling to his feet. His breaths don’t come easy and every part of his body aches, sears with pain.

He’s limping, still watching, as the attention of the pack has turned to the outsider. And, damn it, he wants to help. He doesn’t understand, not in the least, but he feels the sudden need to rip the beasts that are crowding away from his savior. He feels the need to charge right back in. But then he sees it, he sees it and he does anything but understand, because there’s a flash of metal along the beast’s left side, as if someone replaced the thing’s leg.

He feels dizzy and sick when he stumbles back to the safehouse and first pounds on the door. It’s desperate and frantic and useless, because it’s all too clear that nobody is there. But, by some miracle, the door swings open when he tries it and Steve can barricade himself in, throwing deadbolts and chains with trembling fingers, blood pounding through his ears and pouring from his body.

He finds the light before he finds the ground, his back plastered against that door, his chest heaving, his whole world spinning. What the hell had he just seen? Could it have really been… no, that was _impossible_. But Bucky, the Winter Soldier, he’d always been a myth, hadn’t he? He’d been timeless and impossible, and was it so far a stretch to think, that with everything Hyrda had done, they hadn’t done this as well?

He sits with that thought only as long as his pounding head will allow him. Then he needs to move. He finds all number of supplies to patch himself up in the bathroom, so he strips down and gets to work. He still hears the occasional howl or crash or growl outside, but he dares not go toward the windows, dares not investigate what’s happening. He knows that part of himself, that part that really believes he may know the wolf who saved him, would be too tempted to throw himself back into the fight. And the sad reality is that he’s in no state to do it.

Trying to make himself comfortable in the safehouse is a lost cause. Steve no longer hears the sound of the fight outside, but he doesn’t know whether it’s because there is no fight or it’s simply moved out of earshot. He tries not to think of it too hard, but it’s the only thing on his mind. No, the only thing on his mind is that one wolf, that one who saved him, that one who was being torn to shreds when he went to cower inside.

He finds the files when he sits down on the couch—the place is furnished well, as if it’s a simple rental cabin in the woods. He almost smiles at the fact, almost, when he picks the first folder up. There’s a note scrawled there, a confirmation of what he should have known. Nat had expected him to follow and she had left behind what was relevant to him, what she found.

_Stop following me. Hope this helps._

He rolls his eyes and then he digs in, with a further sickening stomach, to the notes and files on Project Fenrir. Maybe it’s what he expected, when he saw that glint of steel. Or maybe he never could have comprehended what had been done to these men, even after seeing the evidence before him. He doesn’t want to believe it, even knowing what Hydra is capable of. It’s cruel, barbaric, ruthless. He closes his eyes more than once through the long night of reading, of learning how they altered humans to transform, just as werewolves, just as legends.

He nearly vomits at mentions of The Asset.

Steve doesn’t sleep, because now he knows. He’s tempted to leave the house, to find Bucky, wherever and whatever he is, and bring him to safety. But he’s bandaged nearly from head to toe, curled under a scratchy blanket, staring at closed files now set back on the coffee table before him. There’s nothing left to do but wait, but hope that Bucky returns as he promised, that there’s a Bucky left to return to him.

Steve prays, and he thinks he’s forgotten how to do it properly, but he prays with all his damn might that he won’t be alone in the morning.

 

 

* * *

 

 

# Day Four

Steve couldn’t say when the exhaustion had finally taken him, but he wakes with a start just around dawn, light beginning to stream through the windows, dim though the forest makes it. He wakes to a sound at the door, somewhere between banging and scratching, and he springs to his feet. It’s a bad idea, because he aches and he nearly keels over from that pain before he makes it to the hooks and latches. But he makes it and, without a second thought, he throws the door open.

It could have been anyone there. Could have been the end of a perfectly laid trap, not by Bucky but by those still loyal to Hydra. Maybe it still is, but he doesn’t care. Because he finds Bucky on his knees, a mess of matted hair and blood, scratched and bitten and torn to hell. Barely upright even where he’s knelt, slumping forward when the door opens. He doesn’t think twice about gathering the man in his arms, pulling him in and locking up again.

“Buck, you with me, buddy?” He gives him a little shake as he drags the man to the bathroom. In better circumstances, he could have thrown him over his shoulder or gathered him up bridal style and carried him across the cabin. But as it stands, it’s all he can do to heft him over one shoulder and do most of the walking for him.

“‘Til the end of the line,” Bucky’s response sends shivers down Steve’s spine and it redoubles his efforts, a sudden strength surging through him that he didn’t know he could possess in this moment. Steve sits him on the toilet while he begins to run the bath, his eyes never straying too far from Bucky, who seemed intent on groaning and coughing and generally making Steve feel like he was in no fit state for anything.

“That was you. You saved me.” Steve doesn’t phrase it as a question, because it’s not one. He knows damn well what Bucky did there, what he _was_ . Bucky looks surprised for a moment, but then he smiles, something weak and shaky, and he gives another one of those little shrugs he seems to have become fond of. It’s all at one endearing and maddening. Steve wants to give him a good shake, to demand what the hell he was thinking, but he doesn’t do that. Instead, he waits for the bath to fill and pretends to be _very_ interested in it when Bucky starts to strip himself down.

“‘S not as bad as it looks. Lot of it’s already healin’ up.” Bucky’s voice makes it sound bad, though. He’s all raspy and wet in the throat and Steve is sure there’s blood on his lips—not a good sign. Steve worries at his lower lip while he looks at Bucky, watches him struggle with the process of undressing. A part of him wants to help, but… well, there are lines that can be crossed, and he’s pretty sure this is one of them.

That is, of course, only if Bucky has worked out how he feels, how he’s felt for all this time. And maybe it’s obvious, with Steve’s burning cheeks, with his insistence that they would have stuck together if it had been possible. He understands now, of course. And more than that, he understands that Bucky had never abandoned him, had never let him out of his damn sight. He aches on the inside just as much as the out, and when Bucky is stripped down, he helps him into the tub.

There’s a certain amount of hissing at the heat of the water, turning red almost immediately on contact. Steve has seen his fair share of blood, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t hate seeing Bucky’s, swirling and dripping, dried in places and caked deep. He closes his eyes for a moment and he feels a wet hand on his cheek, a stroke just beneath his eye. Was he crying? God, it was all so much, all too much.

“I’ll be fine. You worry too much.” Steve opens his eyes to look at Bucky then, to watch him with that hand still on his cheek. He settles into the touch and, for a moment, it feels just like they feel the same thing. It feels so dangerously like Steve isn’t alone in the emotion he’s been harboring for so long. But that’s impossible. Even if it wasn’t, Bucky barely remembered him, barely knew who he was any more. He wouldn’t remember this. He wouldn’t _feel_ this. But that hand stays cupping his face and Steve has his moment, with those tears stinging his eyes.

“They tore you up.” Steve clears his throat, clears the emotion away what best he can, and he goes to draw up the wash cloth that’s been left hanging nearby. It’s so damn intimate, cleaning Bucky up this way, and there would be something telling about that, if it weren’t for the fact that Steve was so fucking worried. He’s terrified, though, scared that Bucky will still bleed out on him, that there’s nothing to be done. But the truth of the matter is that Bucky wasn’t lying.

It takes draining and refilling the bathtub more than once before Steve can properly see it, but many of the wounds have already gone to work stitching themselves shut. He could say the same for his own, really, but that didn’t mean the pain wasn’t still there. He winces whenever Bucky recoils from the touch of the cloth, but in time, they get him cleaned up enough that Steve is content in wrapping him in a towel and setting to work on bandaging the worst of the wounds.

Bucky doesn’t say anything, but there’s a curl of something close to a smile on his lips while Steve works so intently to patch him up. Steve never fancied himself very good at this part, but he takes time and care with it, almost obsessed by the idea of getting Bucky back into shape. And if his fingers tremble a little when they brush over his chest, or when they graze a torn-up thigh, certainly that’s only because Steve is worried about his friend. Yeah, that’s definitely all it is.    

“I take it your friend is gone.” Bucky finally speaks, and he doesn’t seem surprised by this thought. As if he knew all along. Hell, maybe he did. He knew exactly where the safehouse was, knew exactly what kind of dangers were lurking outside it. He knew everything before Steve could even begin to suspect, and it makes Steve feel...well, he’s not sure what he feels. He keeps wavering between relief and concern for the fact. And he’s mostly clouded with confusion. Why, exactly, did Bucky still lead him here, if he knew Nat would be gone by the time they arrived?

“Long since, it looks like.” Steve confirms what doesn’t need to be confirmed at all and he watches Bucky’s face as he reaches to get shorts back on. He doesn’t look, not any more than he already has, but his face goes a little pink at it all, at the casual way Bucky was willing to strip down to the nude for him. That means there’s nothing there, doesn’t it? Nothing beyond the friendship they always shared, nothing beyond Steve’s one-sided affections that always went unchecked and unnoticed and unfulfilled.  

“Did she leave what you were looking for?” Bucky’s question is almost an answer in and of itself, to the one Steve has been asking—had Bucky already been here? Did he know all along that Steve wouldn’t find Natasha? Was he stringing him along for some grand purpose that Steve couldn’t quite see? It certainly feels that way now, but it feels like a lot of things, and Steve can’t make sense of most of them. He simply nods, his mouth drawn to a tight line. He doesn’t speak at first, because he thinks the question will arise.  

“Did she know you were here?” Is what he ends up asking, working around that other question without much particular grace. Steve doesn’t need to know, so long as he can be sure that Nat is safe. And the note she left, the files on the table, they’re as much confirmation as he’ll get without Bucky making some sort of confession. And he isn’t going to force that out of his friend, not when everything feels so damn precarious.

“I think so. Never caught a glimpse of her, but I guess she’s better at the sneakin’ around thing than _some_ people we know,” Bucky gives a weak smile and a pointed glance at Steve and Steve feels himself smiling something shy in return. “But I can tell when I’m bein’ tailed, even if I can’t tell by who. Probably your friend. Probably why she got the hell out of here.” Bucky crosses his arms against his chest and he leans back a little bit, testing the boundaries of his half-broken body. The results seem favorable enough because he barely winces and even chances a stretch of his arms high above his head. That _does_ bring a look of pain to his face, but only a brief flash.

“You’ve met her before. Do you—”

“—remember? Yeah. There’s...not a lot I’ve gotten to forget. Except for you, I guess, and that didn’t stick for good, now that I’ve had some time.” There’s a certain weight to Bucky’s words that makes Steve’s heart twist in on itself. Bucky remembers. He remembers _him_ , in more than just little notes in a book, in more than scenes from a museum. But maybe more pressingly, more importantly, he remembers everything else. He remembers what Hydra did to him, and what they made him do. Steve feels sick over the idea.

They go quiet for a time, and Steve finds his hand slides over Bucky’s as if by instinct. He would have expected to be brushed off, but instead, he feels the warmth of skin wrapping around his. It’s just a small gesture, some sort of comfort, but to which one of them? Cheeks are burning when Steve stops to think a little too long about what it does or doesn’t mean. About what Bucky does or doesn’t know, remembered or otherwise, about Steve’s own feelings. That conversation… Steve has always been so committed to making sure it would never come. Now, after losing Bucky and finding him again, maybe it isn’t the most frightening thing in the world.

“We should get you to bed. You’ll need some time to rest up, with all this.” Steve pulls his hand back and makes a gesture with his head that motions to Bucky’s entire damn body. He’s a mess of haphazard bandages and gauze and medical tape, with wounds that have stitched themselves together if not completely just yet. And still, Steve can’t keep his eyes from wandering, can’t keep his mind from filling in blanks with fantasies and desire. He doesn’t quite flush at it, but he imagines getting his fingers running over that heated skin under a different circumstance and he has to look away from Bucky entirely while he stands.

“You should sleep, too. You look like shit.” Bucky flashes a grin that Steve almost misses, that kind of bright toothy smile that makes his heart stop in his chest. It’s enough that Steve wants to swoop back down and kiss the expression right off his face. Instead, he tosses the towel at Bucky’s chest and calls him a jerk. Then he helps Bucky to his feet, not that he entirely needs it, and he’s allowed to keep an arm wrapped around him as they make the walk down the hall to the little bedroom.

It’s barely an alcove, with a full-size that doesn’t look terribly comfortable taking up the majority of the room. There’s no decor other than a bedside table with a lamp and alarm clock, neither of which are even plugged in. Steve goes to fix up the lamp at least, while Bucky slowly crosses the room to sink onto the edge of the bed. The mattress creaks and groans beneath him and it’s the promise that he won’t be able to get any _good_ sleep despite the exhaustion writ on his face.

Bucky doesn’t waste any time in making himself just as comfortable under the covers as is humanly possible, given the situation. Steve can see he’s still sore, even with wounds healing fast. And he can tell that the bed, creaky and dusty with disuse, isn’t exactly anything to write home about. He’s half tempted to suggest Bucky take the couch instead, which was at least reasonably comfortable when Steve stretched out on it through the night, but Bucky seems content. Steve fights off the urge to tuck him in properly and heat runs across his throat at the thought of it. Something so simple and intimate at once…

“I’ll just be out on the couch if you need anything. Only have to yell,” he forces himself to say, and he doesn’t miss the way Bucky frowns at that. He, in fact, sits up in the bed and pats the spot beside him meaningfully. Steve’s heart leaps into his throat and he’s tempted, so very tempted, to crawl right in as invited. They’re both dressed—or undressed, as the truth might be—for a good day’s rest. Stripped down to skivvies with bandages adorning here and there, with so much skin that could be touching...yeah, Steve can’t get in that bed.

“C’mon. It’ll be like we’re kids.” Bucky’s voice is a little low, and there’s something in his eyes that makes Steve question his entire goddamn life. Something that makes his stomach twist and tighten, makes him want to crawl right up to Bucky’s side, to latch on to him and never again let go. He takes a breath and lets it out in a low sigh and he focuses on the important part, the part that he _should_ be focusing on.

“You remember all that?” He’s shocked. The progress Bucky has made since the notebook seems to be unreal, absolutely astounding. Maybe being together has kicked something into overdrive. Or maybe this is just how it happens, memories filtering in little by little then suddenly and all at once. A lot of things have a way of happening that way, don’t they? Steve’s heart thumps with the idea of his own feelings, something more than memory, something that should have gone away right around the time Bucky was trying to kill him.

“Just came to me. How it works sometimes, I guess,” Bucky shrugs but he smirks and he pats the bed again, as if Steve is a stubborn pet refusing to take the bait, “don’t get all shy now. You just gave me a damn bath. And I promise, I’ll keep my hands to myself.”

“Wish you wouldn’t.” Steve says the words before his brain has the chance to catch up, before he has the opportunity to realize he’s saying them and not just thinking them _very loudly._ His face lights up and he turns away. Definitely going for the couch now, definitely going to punish himself mentally for such a fatal slip. He doesn’t look at Bucky, he can’t, but he hears a low chuckle and shifting on the bed and suddenly there’s a hand—cold and metallic—reaching to touch his.

“‘S kinda funny, y’know?” Bucky’s voice is low and there’s meaning to the words, Steve can tell. Whatever he’s about to say… does he remember that, too? Did he know all along that Steve was hopelessly in love with him, that every damn moment together was just a little bit of silent agony over someone so perfect and so close and so impossibly out of reach? “The memories, they kinda take time. Catch me off guard, nothin’ then suddenly it’s all there…” Bucky’s voice trails for a moment, “...but that feeling. I knew that before I even knew who the hell you were. Who the hell _I_ was.”

Steve goes silent for longer than a beat, for longer than he should. Slowly, he turns so he can face Bucky, so their eyes can meet. There’s something there between them suddenly, something dangerous and electric and surging through the air, through the room. It’s hard to breathe, and for a moment Steve feels like a kid again, scrawny and sickly and helpless against the force that is Bucky. His lips are parted slightly and, god, he wonders how they would feel against Bucky’s.

“What feeling is that?” Steve wants to say, ‘cause I never said a word’, he wants to say ‘because you never felt it too’, but there’s such a hope swelling up in his chest that he can’t finish the thought. He can’t do anything other than stare at Bucky, who is staring right back, smiling, looking at him like he’s something of an idiot. Maybe he is. Maybe he always has been. Is that possible? Is _this_ possible?

“Really gonna make me say it, punk?” Bucky laughs again and Steve is marveling at how easy it all is for Bucky, how he can make it something to smile about, something to laugh about, when Steve’s entire life feels like it hinges on these words. But maybe Bucky knows that, because his expression softens and he squeezes Steve’s hand with their eyes still locked, far longer than they have any right to be. “That feeling like whoever either of us is, I was meant to be right there with you. No matter what. That feeling like I can’t breathe without you, like…” he shakes his head and he laughs again, low and earthy and as if he’s just a little bit embarrassed by himself, “You know I was already here. Why do you think I still offered to bring you? Why do you think I wanted to get you through this place safe? Because I sorta remembered you?”

Steve finally breaks eye contact, his face still flush with the whirlwind of it all. What, exactly, was Bucky saying? Because it sounded a hell of a lot like a confession. Which was impossible. This was all impossible. Bucky having been to the safehouse, knowing all along that Natasha was gone, leading him on a wild goose chase, and for what? So he could spend time with him? So he could ensure his safety? That last part, Steve has to admit, is so perfectly Bucky that he could scream.

“Hell, why do you think I was so intent on keepin’ your dumb ass out of trouble in the first place? Steve…” Bucky takes a breath and he steadies himself, he takes Steve’s other hand so he can draw him close, close enough that he’s almost standing between Bucky’s legs where they’re swung over the edge of the bed. Close enough that Steve feels like he could die for the contact. “I knew I loved you before I knew my damn name. Stop lookin’ so surprised.” The smile Bucky gives with that is so charming, so utterly enticing that Steve takes that last step forward, closes the space between them so he can feel the inside of Bucky’s thighs press against the outside of his own. He’s on fire, he’s dizzy, he’s sure this can’t be real. This definitely can’t be real.

“You never said anything.” Steve finally whispers, and it’s a complete case of pots and kettles, of course. Bucky gives him a pointed look that says exactly that, and finally, Steve smiles. He smiles wide and stupid and like he might never stop. He feels a little bit stupid, just like that smile. He feels like maybe he was missing something, willfully overlooking it, his entire life. And maybe he was. Maybe he was so caught up in his own feelings, in his own certainty that they were unrequited, that he didn’t give Bucky the chance to show what he was trying to all those years. A million missed opportunities, suddenly culminating in this.

“You still haven’t said anything, so I think I get a pass.” Bucky’s hands move to land somewhere near Steve’s hips, a feeling that lands somewhere between entirely unnatural and as familiar as breathing. He bites his lip, and he hates his body because it moves closer still, so close, and he wants to close any remaining distance. He wants to crawl into Bucky’s lap, wants to get his arms around him, wants to finally get his mouth on him, so badly it honest-to-god _hurts_.

“Said I wanted you to touch me.” Steve’s argument isn’t much of one, and the words are spoken so shyly that they barely even escape his lips. But he gives Bucky a meaningful look and he feels those hands—one flesh and one decidedly not—tighten in their spot. And then Bucky is moving forward, he’s the one eliminating the space between them. He’s the one throwing his arms around Steve’s waist and burying his face somewhere close to his chest and just holding him there, actually holding. And then they’re toppling back on the bed and Bucky is crawling so he can embrace Steve properly, so their chests are pressed together and their breaths are mingling, and their hearts are beating so hard between them that Steve can barely make out the difference between one or the other.

“Then let me touch you. Let me show you.” Bucky’s face is so close to his that Steve can practically taste his lips before they brush over him. It’s light at first, as if Bucky is waiting for permission, waiting for that gentle parting that gives him the go-ahead. And then it’s not light, not soft at all. It’s nearly frantic, heavy with need, and Steve knows he’s never been kissed like _that_ , like it’s the only thing in the world either of them could need.

Maybe he should be more cautious here. Bucky is still learning so much, still gathering up those memories as they come. Maybe he should be pushing away, talking through this more, figuring out where they go next, where they even start. But Steve can’t pull himself away, can’t ignore that absolutely magnetic force that Bucky has always been, will apparently always be to him. He can’t deny his body what it’s been craving for a lifetime and then some.

“I love you, Buck. Since...forever,” Steve manages to pant out the words when they part, when it’s just the two of them and the sound of their breathing and the bed creaking beneath them. He doesn’t know what comes next. He knows what he _wants_ to come next, but damn it, it’s all so delicate, so precarious. He doesn’t want to be the one directing things. He wants to let Bucky take charge, whatever that means, just the way he’s always wanted. He feels Bucky’s hand—the flesh one—trace along his jaw, down his throat, over his chest. It’s so tender, so gentle, something he wasn’t sure Bucky was still capable of. Something that feels like tiny shocks of pleasure at every point of contact.            

“Guess we’re on the same page then,” Bucky’s breath dances across Steve’s cheek when he speaks and the feeling is absolutely exquisite. It’s all heat, all the things Steve imagined a moment like this would be. And it’s all impossible, like he’s living through a dream. He’s aching so much, and he tries to take that as a sign that he’s awake, that he wouldn’t be feeling all that pain if he was asleep—that’s how it works, right? But when has he ever been quite so lucky, when have things ever been quite so easy?

“This doesn’t feel real.” He admits, his head tucking neatly beneath Bucky’s chin. It feels safe there, warm and inviting. He can feel the thrum of Bucky’s rapid pulse, can feel the heat of his skin, and he wants more. He wants more of all this, doesn’t want the moment to break, to ever end. And maybe it never will, because Bucky’s hand is tracing through his hair, then down his back, then his hand is playing at his shorts and Steve feels such a sudden surge of arousal he almost grinds himself right into the mattress.

“Does this?” Bucky shifts, so he can snake his hand between them, so he can run his palm flat against Steve’s shorts, against the quickly growing erection. It makes Steve groan, just that little bit of contact, and he feels like he could come just like that, just with Bucky touching him that once, through the fabric of his underwear. God, it’s embarrassing how quickly he’s turning fully hard, throbbing and eager for more of that touch. And he wants to touch Bucky, too, but he can’t seem to remember how to make his muscles work.       

“Feels too good to be real,” Steve admits, and there’s no question in his mind about that point. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt anything so good as Bucky’s touch, and they’ve barely even started yet. His mind has gone to complete liquid with that heavy petting over his clothed cock, the part of it at least that he hasn’t already lost. He’s not as forward with his own touches when he remembers he can make them, can move his hand and run it down the enticing plane of Bucky’s chest. He can feel all the heat of his skin, can feel the rapid drumbeat of his heart, can feel his breaths rising and falling quickly beneath the pads of his fingers. He wants to feel more, but he only keeps his fingertips trailing slow and experimental. He follows defined lines of muscle downward and he looks up at Bucky the whole time, at those ice-cold eyes melting into something else, something somehow more familiar.

“Guess I need to keep tryin’ then,” Bucky says, his lips curled into a smile that is nothing less than mischief embodied. Steve loves that smile, just as much as he loves every goddamn part of Bucky. He loves the torn skin beneath his fingers, he loves the heavy touch between his legs, he loves the man who he’s thought about this way for an entire lifetime and then some. He’s bursting with it, overflowing with it, reduced to nothing _but_ it.

“Don’t stop,” Steve is pleading the moment Bucky’s hand draws away from him, but it’s entirely unnecessary because his fingers are only going to curl around the band of his underwear, to slide beneath elastic on either side and slowly peel them down. Steve lifts his hips to help and he feels himself go all flush, being completely exposed that way. Sure, he’d just seen Bucky entirely naked, but he wasn’t hard and wet in front of him, waiting so desperately to be touched. He shudders at the way Bucky sucks in a breath, shivers at the contact of metal over his hip where those fingers linger. He needs _more_ , and he feels perfectly content in that selfish thought.

Still, it takes a moment for Bucky to touch him again, because then he’s stripping down his own shorts too. Steve wishes he would have taken initiative and done that for him, but the sight is something to behold, Bucky bearing himself down so swiftly and eagerly, just as hard as Steve is, the head of his cock glistening with precome and looking so inviting. And then he’s inching their hips together, so that the two of them are pressed, so there’s so much friction between them that Steve feels like he could burst from it.

“Waited a long time. Not stopping.” Bucky’s voice is all breath and the sound of it does something to Steve that he can’t even explain. The idea of Bucky this turned on by him, pressed into him all hard and wet and eager, it’s more than he could have ever hoped for. It’s more than his brain is allowing him to compute. There’s so much between them, lifetimes of experience, of being torn away from each other time and again. And now they’re here, just the two of them, in the way that Steve had dreamed for so long. His hips rock forward and it wins a groan that makes his cock throb heavily.

Bucky’s hand wraps around them then, a tight and stretching grip, a long stroke over both of their lengths. Steve feels his fingers play at his head and his neck stretches as his chin tilts back in pure pleasure. It shouldn’t feel this good, he’s sure nothing should be allowed to feel this good. His hands brace at Bucky’s shoulders, careful of bandages on the right side, shameless at scars and metal at the left. He grips and he draws them together, chest-to-chest, so that there’s no space left between them at all.

Neither of them speak while Bucky’s hand begins to move, and the silence is punctuated only by slick sounds, only by their mingled breath and the occasional moan. Hips press further together, shift and rock into one another. And Bucky’s hand is a miracle around them, working so deftly, bringing Steve far too quickly to a precipice he barely expected and yet anticipated so dearly in the same frenzied breath. Bucky’s left hand is warmed to Steve’s skin where it grips his hip, where it guides him further.

Steve wants more, wants more than just this, but he knows the limitations of the safehouse, of what they were prepared for. Still, he wants to draw away and fill himself up with Bucky. He wants to get his lips wrapped around that heated flesh, wants to taste him, wants to get his fill. That idea alone almost makes him finish, the thought of Bucky pressed to his lips, sliding between them, heavy against his tongue. They’ll have time, though, won’t they? Now, they suddenly have all the time in the world.

“C’mon, Steve. It’s okay. You’re perfect.” He can feel the tremble in Bucky’s hips, the way he’s holding back, the way he’s making sure Steve is ready to come first. He can see it in his eyes, hooded heavy and clouded with pleasure. Steve’s fingers grip tighter and Bucky gasps out. They’re close, so quickly, so inevitably, and still Steve is finding little retorts and teases. Because that’s who they are, that’s who they always have been.

“Easy to say now.” Maybe a part of him means it, too. Maybe he’s sure that Bucky never would have gone this far with the Steve he knew when they were younger. The one that was a full hundred pounds of skin and bone and reckless abandon. The one that was always picking fights he couldn’t win, always throwing himself into danger without a second thought. Okay, so maybe not everything has changed between himself now and himself back then. But Bucky’s face presses into his throat and Steve loses track of any insecurity.

“Always been perfect. Memory’s not _that_ faulty.” Maybe it’s just that Steve needed to hear those words. Or maybe it’s the way they rumble against his skin, hot and a little wet and followed by a trail of kisses that are hotter and wetter still. Maybe it’s just the fact that Bucky is good with those deft fingers around them, with the way his hips move while he jerks them both together. Whatever it is, Steve is done with those words, undone completely. He feels the wet heat of his release spatter between them, stick into sheets and against his belly, and over Bucky’s hand.

Bucky keeps moving, keeps milking him through an orgasm that is nothing less than monumental, and Steve feels his body tense and tremble when his own release follows. It’s a shared moment of something only describable as bliss. It’s pure and unbridled and it’s far stronger, far more rocking than it has any right to be. It’s far more than Steve has any right to. And they stay that way, pressed together, sticky and sweat-slicked, breathing heavy and clinging to one another as if each is afraid the other will disappear should they let go.

Maybe it’s not such an irrational fear to have, after everything.

It’s forever and it’s only a moment at the same time before Bucky is the one to draw away. He promises that he’s only going to get them cleaned up before he’s crawling out of bed, leaving Steve there to draw up covers and pretend he doesn’t feel suddenly, starkly alone. He doesn’t care about the mess, not as much as he cares about being pressed in against Bucky. Not as much as he cares about the fear that, now that they’re done, Bucky will simply gather up his clothes and disappear back into those woods, and Steve will simply never see him again. It’s a real fear, and maybe not one that’s unfounded. There’s still that feeling in Steve’s chest, that thought in the back of his mind, that maybe it was too soon to jump at each other in just this way.

He doesn’t have too much time to despair over it, to wonder over the possibility of real regret, though because soon enough, Bucky is there again. He’s in the doorway for a moment with a wet rag and a smile curled on his lips, in all his naked glory. He looks amazing, Steve thinks, with the little stream of sunlight filtering in from the bedroom window. He looks amazing always, Steve thinks, but especially in this hazy afterglow.

Bucky crawls right back into bed and he tends to Steve, hands gentle while he wipes away all the sticky mess left behind. Then he tosses the rag over to the bedside table, unconcerned with the mess he’s leaving there, and he curls himself right up against Steve’s chest. He looks exhausted, more so than ever. And he feels like home to Steve, his cheek resting atop his heart, his arm curling around as if he was always meant to be there, no hesitation or regret.

There’s no conversation about what will come next. Steve wants to have that talk, wants to know the score, but that same exhaustion is running through his veins and heavying his eyelids and making any attempts at questioning utterly futile. He trusts, as much as he can, that Bucky will be right here curled into his arms just the same, warm skin and soft hair and fluttering lashes, when they wake. It’s a conversation for then, a question for later, because he can already feel Bucky’s breath steadying out, can already feel his body going loose and limp and so utterly relaxed. It’s impossible not to follow.

“Jerk,” he breathes, his lips twitching at a half-hearted smile, too tired to form completely, “I love you.” He thinks Bucky is too far gone, already out cold, to hear it. But lips move against his chest for a moment and there’s a rumbling sound about Bucky’s throat, and Steve feels content that his affections have been returned. He feels content that he’s found everything he was looking for and then some, and that he won’t be letting it go again.

And he feels content, for the first time in a long time, to simply rest.

 


End file.
